Sizzle
by CSI Clue
Summary: House and Cuddy consider each other's mindsets.
1. Chapter 1

I. HOUSE

He has his fantasies of course.

Every man had them, sensual videos in glorious Technicolor, pieced together at the back of his thoughts from a mishmash of images and sensations, some imagined, some real. For House the source was constant. The glimpse of cleavage; the curve of her ass as she leaned over her desk; pretty lips puckered in annoyance—all of these snippets lingered on the brain, and he would think back on them at odd, quiet moments in his day.

House had always preferred brunettes; blondes were lovely eye candy, to be sure, and a redhead now and then could catch his attention certainly, but time and time again he returned to the warm and darkly sweet allure of brunettes. Something in the glint of light on dark hair, or the defined arch of a well-groomed brown eyebrow did good things to him deep inside.

The archetype set in pre-puberty lingered, he knew—the blueprint for a lifetime of lusting, mapped out and familiar, overlaid on each woman he was truly attracted to, a template into which only a select few fit.

Stacy was the first to fit the mold; slender, cool and sophisticated. She had the cream complexion and wit, the fearlessness to stand up to his circling interest. He'd felt the pull of attraction from the first moment, and even now—after all the time and tears, the tug returned in briefer memories on early mornings when the pain kept him awake. Stacy had set his standard, certainly.

Cameron wasn't a true brunette, House instinctively knew. She had the delicate, graceful moves at times, but her personality lacked the full-bodied sensuality of a woman born to the browns. Even when she experimented with coloring, it didn't sit quite right, and House thought of her as a girl, playing with her mother's makeup, overdoing herself in an attempt at camouflage. Cameron might grow into brunettehood, but it would take a few years, and House wasn't sure if she'd ever acquire the natural boldness it took to be both lascivious and confident.

And then there was Cuddy. Cuddy was the real thing, he knew—sensually arrogant, mysterious at times, and more than capable of wrapping any man around her well-manicured pinkie. This was the Earth Goddess of old, who would not only have eaten the apple in Eden, but then would have tossed the core at poor Adam and laughed.

Hair of rich darkness, wild enough to need taming and full enough to constantly remind a man of her femininity. There was no forgetting Cuddy was a woman; if her breasts and lazy sway of her hips didn't register, then her hot blue eyes and dark hair did. Sometimes House wanted to bury his fingers in it just to pull her to him in the most primitive of ways. Cave man knee jerk response to that taunting mane of hers.

Not a brunette. THE brunette; a frustrating tantalizing, fascinating witch of a woman under those power suits and pearls. House suspected she could conduct a business meeting wearing nothing BUT those damned pearls and never lose her dignity. It was delightful to imagine her glaring around the table in her magnificent nudity, still perfectly capable of making everyone jump—

--Or rise.

But more often she was better cast in other scenarios in his mind. House wasn't big on sharing, particularly when it came to the fleshly pleasures he felt rightly belonged to him alone. Unless it was another woman, of course. That was clearly acceptable, since any female in her right mind would appreciate the privilege of making love to Cuddy too, and long as he was part of the mix, all was very right with the world.

But more often than not, tackling Cuddy alone was a more intense fantasy, and House thrilled in the realization that she lends herself to so many lascivious circumstances. In his dark mind theatre, she could play a grieving widow in her hot little black suit, or the rain-drenched hitchhiker along the dark road, the wicked interrogator bent on breaking down his will . . .

She had strength to her, House knew. Cuddy could be as vulnerable as any woman, but she channeled it, used it to keep her shoulders high. In all the years he had known her, House had seen her actually cry a total of three times. He had caught her with red eyes and sniffles, but her steely voice and no-nonsense attitude kept him at bay until she collected herself again. Cuddy had a core of titanium, slender, but there, even when it seemed like she was giving in.

Which was why all the best fantasies of her were precisely the ones where she yielded to him.

Oh yes the sweet 'Submitting TO the Baroness' fantasy was still plenty hot as House knew, Godddddd yes. He was fairly sure that Wanda Von Kreesus was Cuddy's direct ancestor, along with Bettie Page and Kitten Natividad, so at times it was only natural to picture the Dean of Medicine as a petite, but oh-so-in-charge Dominatrix.

_Good times_, he smiled to himself, _good times_.

But in truth the most forbidden of thrills, the most blackly exciting scenarios centered on peeling away that control of hers; of breaking down her disciplines.

_Finding the tigress within_, House thought with a little growl of his own deep in his throat, _taming the potentially untameable_.

Yes that challenge, House understood instinctively, was the primary undercurrent that put a little more power into his stride whenever he approached Cuddy. Une raison d'apprécier la masculinité, as it were, carefully tucked away under the cloaking layers of his attitude and mock-contempt.

Somewhere even under all that, in a dark primordial place he's acknowledged only to himself in the deepest nights of endless pain is another slippery reasoning, one that House fights back, as he has for years.

_I am damaged. Therefore I will always have to fight harder, be meaner, cut deeper in everything._

_Always._

_Especially in this hard, hot dance with Her._

II. CUDDY

She had her fantasies of course.

Sometimes she wondered if other women had them—at least to the depth and degree that she did. Certainly it wasn't the sort of thing Cuddy could truly ask anyone. She had friends, and girlfriends, but nobody close enough to get into that sort of intimate discussion.

But she definitely had fantasies, fueled by the surge of hormones, the heat of the day, and the slow, arrogant way House made his way into her line of vision, like a great white gliding through familiar territory. The set of his wide shoulders, the lean thrust of his hips, the taunting twist of his lips set in a familiar sneer; all of these worked their way into her brain and unsettled her equilibrium. It was a sexy body despite what he might think of it himself, and Cuddy had savored every opportunity she'd had to touch it.

Cuddy had always preferred her men confident; even-tempered was restful, and now and then a man of mellowness would and could be very soothing, but on the whole, it was those who were faintly confrontational and carrying a taint of arrogance who set her pulse jumping. Men who stood toe-to toe with her always made her stomach flutter in delightful ways.

She supposed—when she bothered to analyze it—that it was because any man willing to do battle verbally with her already took her for the challenge she knew she could be. When a man stepped up to that reality, it meant he had to have considered the possibility that he might lose. That she, Cuddy, the female, might win.

Not equality, she knew, but a power struggle of magnificent nuances covering everything from the rational argument to the surge of hormones.

Wilson wasn't that man. He argued, yes, and he definitely carried his own prep school, clean-limbed beauty, his classically handsome features well established in her day-to-day world. Wilson had his charms, but confrontation was never a serious factor with him, and Cuddy sensed that while he might lust for her, he'd never do battle to prove it. He was too well experienced in the politics of budget and lust to push against her, and they both knew it.

Foreman had more bite, Cuddy knew. He had the arrogance of course, but far too much of it was about him rather then about any sort of them. He'd fight, he might even be attracted to her on a physical level, but in the end, his superior attitude was merely a factor of his own youth and insecurities rather than a true rise of masculine confidence.

And that left House. Delicious, demanding, definitely debatable House. He swept into places and made himself known, felt, experienced as Cuddy recalled with a flush. He was descended from Pharaohs, from Emperors and Kings and Generals. House carried his supreme self-worth as easily as he did his balls; lazily, and with no need to acknowledge anything beyond a smirk.

She wanted to break him. Those were good fantasies; the ones where she had him under her, lost in lust and trembling; focused on the hot pleasure of slick skin and sensation. Cuddy had seen him vulnerable only a few times in all the years they'd known each other, and each memory still brought a throb between her thighs. House in his moments of exposure was a raw and beautiful thing, a temptation that hit her on too many Freudian levels to analyze properly.

Sweet fantasies, she knew.

But at other times, in darker, less civilized moments she closed her eyes and turned the coin on that image. Yes, she'd done battle with him and won, but those times when she hadn't . . . when HE had won. Oh. House in his moment of triumph, nostrils flared, blue eyes blazing, the office echoing with his last growl of victory—

Knowing, feeling the power of his self-belief, and letting him sweep it over her. Standing by and bit by bit, feeling House make his moves. His touches, his breath mingling with hers, his fingers moving to undress her; touch her with no hesitation or fear.

Letting him take her in his own way and time, holding back and savoring House's savage promise of pleasure as he searches her eyes, looking for her submission—

Those were the knee tremblers.

(TBC)


	2. Chapter 2

III. HOUSE

They touched more often. House (being himself) noticed this, and while the analytical part of his mind pondered it, weighing the pros and cons of pushing the limits or randomizing the moments of connection, his physical self stubbornly kept up the degree of contact, increasing it by small increments whenever possible. It had been a long time since House had to chide himself mentally for giving in to his baser nature, and the unfamiliarity of the need annoyed him.

Not enough to stop touching Cuddy, however. A brush of shoulders here, the polite hand pressed to the small of her back to guide her through a door there; little invasions of her personal space when the opportunity struck. A good part of his pleasure rose from the warmth radiating off of her; Cuddy had a concentrated aura composed of perfume, sexuality and shyness and that latter element intrigued House tremendously.

He'd never thought of Cuddy as shy, but he realized that aspect was there; the silently awkward hint of it apparent when he loomed over her, quietly admiring the sleek lines of her frame. Sometimes when she looked up at him the unexpected glitter of her blue eyes caught his, and House would see the shyness there, startling and God help him, arousing.

It didn't fit. Shy? So not Cuddy. She exuded confidence whether it was justified or not, and House had never seen her personally impressed by anyone. She fawned over the famous or rich who came through Princeton-Plainsboro's doors certainly, but that was part of the job, and not a personal trait to the Lisa Cuddy that he knew.

It appealed to him, and House felt that it shouldn't. Demureness wasn't interesting at all . . . except when it was showing up in the wrong person. He expected Cameron to be demure, or his great-aunt Constance. Cuddy on the other hand, was supposed to be cynical, irritating and hot, in spades. The dichotomy bothered him, and House found himself wondering about it in his private moments, worrying it the way a dog does a bone.

_She could be afraid of me_, House thought, and dismissed in nearly the same moment. That theory was utter crap, because of all the things House knew Cuddy felt about him, fear had never been on the list. He'd insulted her, bullied her, leered and teased and annoyed the daylights out of her for years—it didn't stand to reason that she'd suddenly become scared of him. At times the woman had been only inches from bitchslapping him into next week, so she was clearly NOT afraid of him.

_She could be preoccupied_, came the unhappy consideration. That was a possibility and an annoying one to boot. Whenever he was with Cuddy, House reasoned, her entire focus should be on him, period. God knew he worked hard enough to make her day interesting with his outrageous treatment requests and suggestive comments; the least she could do would be to pay attention. His last surreptitious survey of her current mail, both paper and E hadn't brought any suspicious addresses to mind either, so reluctantly House had to accept that it was unlikely any outside source was drawing her attention.

_She could be tired of me_ . . . and that idea sent an unexpected pang of pain through him as he mused on it. The concept that Cuddy didn't care anymore inflicted a weird hurt that House wouldn't define. It was one thing to let his relationship with his Fellows wax and wane according to his mood, but Cuddy was in the Exalted Circle and as such was required to stay enthralled with him.

It was a small Circle; only two peasants worshiping one king, but it was all his, House gloated.

But it seemed unlikely that she'd outgrown him, given her behavior of late. She didn't order him out of her office or tell him to get lost in those subtle and not-so subtle ways she was so good at any more than she usually did. If anything, Cuddy spent more time in his presence—always with a good reason of course; a valid surface reason.

_So why was she reserved? _House persisted with himself. _Is she sick? Pregnant? Considering a new job? Dating someone?_ None of those sat right with him, the latter one least of all.

He was fairly sure she wasn't sick, not with her scrupulous attention to diet and exercise; any woman who passed up the red lollipops in the clinic was a hardliner indeed. Nor was she pregnant; House kept discreet tabs on Cuddy's calendar and despite her little code system he knew perfectly well that a frowny face in red ink meant Midol time.

As for a change of job, well that was remote as well. Ambitious as she was, Cuddy enjoyed her position as Dean of Medicine. It gave her everything she craved: The ongoing challenge of difficult decisions, paperwork, power lunches and good media exposure. And the satisfaction of healing people, he supposed. Somewhere in there, she seemed to care about that aspect too.

So if it wasn't any of the first three, then the possibility of the fourth loomed in his mind, and House scowled at that. Cuddy dating was anathema to him; her time spent with some worthless potential sperm donor was her time wasted in not appreciating brilliant diagnoses, or arranging for bail, or talking to irate patients. It was Cuddy's duty to handle these things; he spent enough energy arranging his day around creating the appropriate amount of havoc.

They had a balance to this association of theirs. A quid pro quo with much more quid on her part, but that was why she pulled in the salary she did, and in any case, House had already put the kibosh on her dating before—he could do it again, if need be.

VI. CUDDY

They touched more often, and that puzzled Cuddy as much as it quietly delighted her. House had never been the sort of doctor (or person, she amended to herself) to search out human contact; nevertheless he was in her personal space on a regular basis, looming, brushing, and making a point to do so.

She accepted it. House wasn't stupid, and Cuddy knew she could make him back off with nonverbal cues of a hundred different types, but she let him drift close enough for their auras to overlap because it felt good. Some inner part of her basked in the attention because deny it as he did, House was an attractive man. Physically as well as intellectually he towered over her, and she enjoyed the sensation of his height, his presence.

And there were all the tiny little signs evident when he did so that he was aware of her on that physical level too: the widening of his pupils, the slight cock of his head in her direction, the proprietary moves as he kept pace with her wherever they were. House could be the most irritating petty tyrant in Princeton-Plainsboro hospital, playing up and playing off of his peers and subordinates, but when he was with her, the attraction was evident, Cuddy knew.

She wondered how long it had been building; what had moved him forward out of the stasis of Stacy? Had it been the Ketamine with its heartbreaking freedom and slow ebb leaving him to fall back into pain? Had it been the vindictive nightmare of Tritter? In any case, whatever the case, it was quietly thrilling to see the perimeters of his self-restraint loosen a bit around her.

People had always talked, but Cuddy hadn't paid much attention or wasted much time on it; when you were a successful woman people always talked. House had started as her bete noir; her crown of thorns, but she knew that the grudging mutual respect the rest of the world saw was only the surface of a more complicated relationship, and even now the depths were changing.

He kept . . . showing up. At her front door, at her bedroom window for God's sake, like some lovelorn schoolboy trying to woo her with the thin excuse of a case on his lips even as he ogled her nightgowns. And she played along because despite the lateness of the hour or the outrageousness of the requests, the pleasure of seeing him there warmed her in very nonprofessional ways. The fact that he was thinking of her in the darkest hours, and was drawn to her made Cuddy feel a little hot and breathless at times.

_Why can't he just admit it?_ Became her inner mantra of frustration. The unspoken, unacknowledged heat between them kept building, day after day, and Cuddy found herself debating between forcing the issue and holding back. Both ideas had their appeal and cautions and if Cuddy had learned anything in her long hard climb to power, it was to consider things well.

_If I push, he'll deny_, she acknowledged. House was a master at many things, and self-deception was one. If anything useful had come out of the encounters with Tritter it was that. For all his vaunted devotion to finding the truth, House left himself on the other side of the door as much as any man; more so when pain left him hollow and angry.

_If I hold back, he'll settle for the status quo_, Cuddy countered with herself. It was true; House had shifted their status quo to suit his needs, but the holding pattern they were in could go on indefinitely, she suspected. He was getting just enough of her time and attention to function, and she laughed at the realization_. I'm his emotional Vicodin now._

She'd noted his reactions to her small, fumbling attempts at a life: his cynical support for her in-vitro attempts; his annoyance with her outings with Wilson. House was in-tune with her life to an intimate degree whether he wanted to admit it or not, and more so than he ever did with any of his Fellows, he moved to change things in her life to suit himself.

It was time, she decided, to do the same with his; not on a professional one, but on a far, far more personal one.


	3. Chapter 3

V. HOUSE

Something was up. Nothing major, nothing overtly visible or obvious; nevertheless the delicate vibration along his radar kept tingling. House trusted it; that sensitive intuition had kept him two steps ahead of the world most of the time. He let it sweep over the mundane realities of his day, picking up tensions and odd notes here and there; in the quiet privacy of his office, House pulled the bits into neat bundles in his mind.

Cameron was considering moving. He'd spotted a list of phone numbers peeking out of her purse as she left work, most of them recognizable from bus stop bench ads around the hospital. If she was moving, it would mean she'd be frazzled for the next two weeks, and more likely to ask to leave early—first for viewings then for appointments--a pain in the ass, but at least it meant she'd also be too busy to bother him about mail and phone messages and clinic hours.

Wilson had taken up golf again, and was too scared to mention it. House had seen the traces of cut grass along his pant cuffs, and the stray tee sitting on the bookcase in Wilson's office. It wasn't a sport Wilson liked much, but it gave him a chance to schmooze with a few peers and a handy excuse to get away on a few afternoons—and House didn't begrudge him that too much.

House didn't think about golf anymore; it required the sort of mnemonic concentration that the Vicodin sucked away nowadays, and too many of his memories of it centered around Stacy, and her terrible backswing, and the showers they took together afterwards.

Cuddy golfed, but not often; tennis and running took her free time. House let his thoughts flicker pleasurably over the thought of her in her tennis whites, striding off . . . and it dawned on him then what the little disturbance in the Force was.

Cuddy.

Cuddy hadn't been . . . around. Oh she'd been AROUND around—in the background, passing by, a dark-haired figure up on the balconies above, yes. But she hadn't been within arm's reach for almost an entire day, and that was just Not Acceptable in the grand scheme of things. As Professor Higgins might have sung, House had grown accustomed to her face . . . among other body parts.

The why of it bothered him simply because he prided himself in the quick uptake of any break in routine, and most he could see coming. The ebb and flow of life in the hospital had given him a time sense with mental cogs that turned with the hours and months and season. Too, his incremental incursion into Cuddy's personal space was moving forward with glacial speed; a slow and steady redefinition of the boundaries that neither commented on.

So to have her withdraw with no explanation required further investigation. Fortunately, there were no cases on his agenda and clinic wasn't for a few hours, so he hied himself off towards Cuddy's office, intending on a mission of reconnaissance.

He moved cautiously, casting his gaze towards the glass panels that made up the front walls of her office and noted immediately that she wasn't alone. Not unusual.

Chase was with her.

That was unusual. And immediately annoying.

Robert Chase had a modicum of talent as a diagnostician, but that didn't mean he had any business sitting opposite Cuddy in her office, clearly discussing something that wasn't medical, not by the dimpled smile on his disgustingly boyish cherubic face. Likewise, Cuddy was wasting official time by nodding and smirking back.

House backed out of the immediate line of sight and kept watching, his mind flicking through possibilities at the speed of light and narrowing them down to three, none of which pleased him.

Theory A: Cuddy had decided that she needed the sperm of a young, healthy Australian wombat.

This was a nauseating and depressing possibility. True, Chase was young, intelligent and most likely virile, but House couldn't quite shake the image of Cuddy in a kangaroo suit, complete with baby in a pouch.

Theory B: Chase had suddenly developed an Oedipus complex.

Although potentially plausible, the complications of such a situation bordered on pathetically irritating. Clearly Chase admired forceful women—his background knowledge of S and M seemed to point to that—but Cuddy had far, far better things to do that vamp for a seminary dropout; House alone could assure that.

Theory C: The two of them were plotting some coup of the Diagnostic department.

More insidious and given Chase's wily loyalties, completely possible. The kid's track record this year had been better than average, and the PPTH publicists would certainly love his photogenic features beaming out on the brochures . . .

House snapped back to the here and now when Chase reached over and touched Cuddy's face.

_Wrong._

Not her face precisely, but her hair, along the left side of her face; the details weren't terribly clear through the red haze, and House felt his jaw tense. He rocked a little, his long fingers gripping the handle of his cane as instantaneously two parallel thought streams flowed from one hemisphere of his brain to the other. The first one consisted of a lightning swift feed of incoming data that accounted for the time, the weather, the immediate spatial inventory, the internal GPS at the heart of his radar.

The other was the quicksilver surge of emotions prompting some immediate and spontaneous autonomic responses. Elevated respiration, tension along the major muscle groups, a flash of adrenaline radiating out from his mid-thoracic cavity, accompanied by a mental image of Doctor Robert Chase sprawled out backwards, the rubber tubing of his own stethoscope wrapped tightly around his scrawny neck as his face turned a rich shade of aubergine and his tongue lolled out like a limp sea slug.

It was a satisfying fantasy; a variation on a theme, House acknowledged. He often thought of extinguishing his Fellows in ghastly yet cheerful scenarios; usually when they were being obstinate or obtuse. Killing off Chase would terminate whatever plans had been brewing in Cuddy's office; dead Aussie meant A) no baby, B) no Greek chorus and C) no coup.

Should Cuddy object, House reasoned, he could always point out that he hadn't been the one with nefarious, clearly non-medical plans.

He blinked, coming out of the fantasy, and noted that both Chase and Cuddy were on their feet now, still smiling at each other in their cozy tête-à-tête. Then Cuddy reached for Chase's arm and that was impetus enough for House to lurch forward, pushing the door to her office open loudly.


	4. Chapter 4

VI. CUDDY

It took a lot of thought and time to set things up, and even now Cuddy could not quite believe her own audacity. She never used to use other people as blatantly as she does now and certainly never for her own ends. Integrity was a part of her personal credo; she had stood by that for most of her professional life.

But while ideals were perfect, people weren't, and Cuddy had gotten used to that realization. House had certainly driven the point home time and time again, so it seemed only fitting to use the lesson he'd taught her on him.

She had always been a quick study.

Cuddy looked over at House, feeling a tightening of her stomach and a flush of heat on her skin. She kept her hand on Chase's arm, and patted it gently in a gesture of quiet reassurance as she pitched her voice in a low tone to him. "That you—I appreciate your input, Doctor Chase."

"Nowh probl'm," he drawled back, his gaze bouncing from her to House. He shifted to leave, passing by House's withering glare; oddly, neither words nor cane stopped his progress. Cuddy noted that House's gaze tracked Chase's exit keenly, the way a sniper might lock his focus on a target. Clearly aware if it, the younger doctor moved with appreciable speed to the door and left with an audible sigh of relief

Then House's gaze swung back to her; his words pitched in a low and dangerously measured tone. "What the hell was that?"

Cuddy held back her shiver, and analyzed that tone, feeling a rush of smugness and fearful anticipation. It had been a long time coming, this little showdown. She'd had a taste of it outside her door after her disastrous date; that clash with House had ended with her retreat, spurred by panic and annoyance, but now--

-

Now was the moment of honesty, she promised herself. Cued so far by a carefully placed strand of red thread, and an innocent conversation on the merits of Manly Hospital.

"What?" she shot back, moving to her stand-by of offense immediately, "House, was there something you wanted from me?"

A good question—vague enough to cover a lot of ground between them and a strong opening for whatever he might want to bring up as a topic, but with an undertone of suggestiveness accentuated by her hands dropping to her hips.

House's gaze flickered from her eyes and down her torso for a split second in honest masculine reaction before he rallied. Cuddy felt a frisson of satisfaction in having the upper hand, if only for a moment. The hip flaunt might have been seen by some as a cheap tactic, but she'd accepted it as just one more weapon in her arsenal of strategies in dealing with men.

"A little self-control might be a good start," he sneered, stepping closer and bringing his looming height into play. Cuddy countered by keeping her head still and only letting her eyes turn upward. House was a master loomer, hanging over the vertically-challenged when he wanted to make a point, but it was an old tactic, and Cuddy had lost her fear of it long ago. Looming could be dangerous; to wit, it meant his testicles were within knee's reach.

"What the hell are you talking about?" she demanded, letting just the right amount of exasperation color her question. It was important to keep things light; unassuming. She shifted a little, trying to angle herself in his shadow and away from the glass walls.

"Spare me the feigned innocence—it doesn't suit a conniver like you, Cuddy. Clearly, your conversation with Doctor Suck-up wasn't centered on anything remotely medical. Maybe you ought to talk to Cameron for the between-the-sheets referral if you're this desperate."

Cuddy steeled herself. The words hurt, but she'd expected no less from House, and in an odd way, their very intensity helped confirm her inner conviction. She lifted her chin. "Who says I haven't?"

House's withering eye roll in response to this was a classic, she noted. "Because you have a bit more selectivity than to consider an idiot who still uses the _Pop-Up Kama Sutra_ as a guide."

Cuddy fought the urge to snicker; House at his most scathing still managed to interject his needling wit into even the most casual of insults. She shifted her hands from her hips, slowly bringing her arms up under her bust and crossing them, knowing the gesture brought emphasis to her chest.

"My conversation with Doctor Chase is none of your business, House," Cuddy replied, with deliberate slowness, knowing House would immediately find significance in that. He was a keen interpreter of tone and tenor in any exchange, and she counted on him to dig deeper.

He did, of course, rising to her comment like a fast-moving trout to a mayfly. "How about the unprofessional PDAs then? I certainly wasn't aware of any particular hairdressing skills on Chase's CV."

Slowly, Cuddy half-turned and reached for the long piece of red thread lying on her blotter. She picked it up between her forefinger and thumb, then held it out to him, her expression one of patient annoyance. "This was in my hair."

House took it from her; inspected it. She wanted to laugh at his scowl, but turned away from him, trying to time her shift so that by the time he said anything she'd have the desk between them . . . .

"This isn't yours." House commented, his tone softer, tinged with that preoccupied curiosity that signaled that she'd caught his interest. Cuddy said nothing and shifted her gaze to the papers on her desk; a coy move, but better than facing the hot scrutiny of his stare. "Your coat is black, and your scarf is pink. It's a cotton thread, not wool or angora."

"Thank you for that report. I'll let you keep it as a souvenir," Cuddy murmured. "Is there anything else, Encyclopedia Brown?" _The right tone of dismissal, keep it light_, she reminded herself.

"Why were you talking to Chase? He's not up for an evaluation, he's not looking for more money, and even if he is on the rebound from Cameron, you're not nice enough to console him."

She'd gotten to him. House wouldn't let go now until he got an answer, and Cuddy savored the sensation of triumph. If everything else fell into place today, then she could expect him to show up at her window tonight.

Just one more item to go--

"I repeat—my conversation with Doctor Chase has nothing to do with you, House. Now if you don't mind, I have a lot to do today," she muttered, and flipped open the folder on her desk.

The Jezebel catalog fell out, fluttering to the floor . . .

Right on cue.

Cuddy lunged for it, but House was quick, dropping the rubber tip of his cane onto the glossy periodical, pinning it to the carpet before she could reach it.

"Well, well, what have we here? Doing a little on-line shopping at lunch?"

"Give me that," she snarled, feeling genuine heat on her face. She'd known it would be embarrassing, but the malicious mirth in House's face left her slightly breathless. He bent and picked up the catalog, turning to the pages with the Post-it note.

"House! That's private!"

"Yowza! I'm sold on the green one here at the top of the page," he muttered happily, "These are a few of my favorite strings—"

"Give me that—" Cuddy snatched the catalog away, the burn across her cheeks warm as she dropped it into the drawer of her desk. When she looked up, House was eyeing her keenly, his expression oddly unreadable. For a moment neither one of them said anything, gazes locked.

Cuddy felt . . . naked.


	5. Chapter 5

VII. HOUSE

The moment was slightly surreal; tinged with elements of fantasy and yet awkward too, and House could see that Cuddy herself was as affected by it as he was. He shifted his weight and took a moment to reassess the situation, sorting through the facts at hand. Mentally he bullet pointed them on the whiteboard of his mind:

Cuddy had spoken to Chase in an intimate discussion.

Cuddy was annoyed that he, House, had caught this.

Cuddy acknowledged the hair-touching.

Cuddy provided a reason—the red thread—for the hair-touching.

The red thread was unrelated to any clothing in Cuddy's office or immediate vicinity.

The Jezebel catalog was well-thumbed.

All fairly clear to anyone else looking at the situation he acknowledged, but without the overt connection that House knew had to link them somehow. He didn't trust coincidences; in his experience, random factors actually did have a measure of predictability if one knew how to look at the actions preceding them.

Chase/ Discussion/Catalog . . . this wasn't going well, not at all.

Chase/Discussion was a mild annoyance he could root out by bugging the younger man enough, no problem. But Catalog thrown into the mix was definitely a red light. As any red-blooded male knew, the Jezebel catalog was one hundred percent silky sultry sex—window-shopping for the man who appreciated a barely obstructed view.

On the heels of that, Chase/Catalog was an absolute NoNo.

Yes, the Cuddy/the Jezebel Catalog fell into the category of Too Damned Fine for the Likes of That Nonentity, big time. House was sure that if Chase had ever mentally linked Cuddy to a Jezebel catalog, the kid would explode in a fountain of repressed libido and unused testosterone. After all, there was hot, and there was incendiary; it took an older, wiser letch to appreciate the difference.

All of this passed with lightning speed through his synapses as he managed a subdued smirk at his victim. Cuddy had that high flush along her cheeks; the one that looked glamorous on her. House cleared his throat. "You're hiding something."

"That's a switch," she shot back, a little unsteadily. "You're usually accusing me of revealing too much. Which is it this time, House?"

"On the defense already I see—that points to guilt. Of course you've pretty much minored in guilt your whole life, so it's bound to affect even this little moment we're having." He watched her carefully as his accusation rolled off his tongue, looking for her tiny usual signs of distress.

Not there. Interesting.

"We're not having a moment in any shape, way or form," Cuddy replied smoothly. "Unless you have something to demand of me, I need to get back to my job, House."

He cocked his head, hearing her words and under them, the throaty sound of . . . satisfaction.

Red Alert.

House took a step around the desk in a calculated move to keep Cuddy off-balance. She lifted her chin in the proud way she had and locked gazes with him—not a challenge, but a strong, steady stare. He considered that as well.

Cuddy was embarrassed, but not about the catalog. If she had been, she would have let her gaze flicker back to the drawer; kept a protective hand on her desk. Instead, her hands were loose, and too relaxed. On impulse, he caught one thin wrist with his left hand, letting his fingers glide into her palm as he took in the impressions. Cool, slightly damp—in a word; nervous.

_Proximity and attraction_, House lectured to himself internally. _Pheromones and biology at work._

Then Cuddy twisted her wrist out of his grasp, going against the thumb in a swift little move. She slid her fingers around the back of his hand and tugged it forward, bringing his palm firmly up against her breast.

House blinked. For a solid second, his eyes widened, and his jaw dropped in stunned silence. Cuddy leaned forward and whispered; the word didn't register for a second. "Honk."

Then she peeled his cupping fingers off, efficiently and far too swiftly. House's brain had barely registered the sweet, pliant heft of her left breast, the warm, perky contours sleekly encased in her thin blouse.

His body however, had rocketed from its usual stage of leering on the sidelines to DEFCON 1, all in the space of three seconds. House flexed his now-empty fingers as he stared at them, then turned his gaze to her.

Cuddy had shifted, moving to her desk and studiously looking at it in the quiet pause of the moment, not saying anything. Both of them heard the soft tread of footsteps; Wilson poked his head in, looking at them from around the half-open door, his coat on, his crimson scarf dangling from his shoulders. "House, you wanted the cacciatore, right? Lisa, I'm picking up some antipasto over at Mama Luciano's—anything you want?"

"Fennel salad. Take House with you; I've got work to do."

He heard her tone; he heard the huskiness under it and tainting in her words was a hint of something close to panic. Since this was not the time to confront her, House turned, hoping his sports coat was long enough to offer a little camouflage as he reluctantly lumbered towards Wilson. Automatically he threw out a quip, if only to deflect the curiosity in the other man's searching brown eyes.

"Nice accessorizing, Wilson—tastefully preppish, yet still giving off the unmistakable impression that your mother dresses you."

Wilson rolled his eyes, and in the moment he did so, House shot a glance back at Cuddy, who was studiously avoiding it. "And a GREAT color, too."

"Going to compliment my shoes next? Because if we're dating, you're paying for lunch," Wilson sighed, holding the door open wider. House brushed past him, thinking hard, and suspecting that Cuddy was watching him go.

Strike that—KNOWING that she was.

Lunch was annoying. Wilson wanted to gossip, and House would have much preferred to sit and think in private, but if he did anything other than his usual banter and snipe routine Wilson would have been suspicious, and the last thing House needed was the distraction of pointless questions.

Wilson had his uses and his own feckless charm, but the man couldn't take a 'get lost' hint to save his life, so House kept up the façade, tossing out cutting replies in the conversational pauses and lightly picking at his cacciatore when they returned from the restaurant.

House let Wilson deliver Cuddy's salad by himself, and stared hard at the scarf hanging from the coat hook in the corner of the office while the man was gone. Finally, he rose and went over to it, feeling the fabric between his fingers, examining it carefully.

He regretted not having the thread for comparison purposes; the material was close, and if his supposition was correct, it didn't answer anything at all. Why would Cuddy have a thread from Wilson's scarf in her hair? The logical leap would be that she had worn his scarf, and that implied a relationship that left House tense.

Cuddy had gone out with Wilson a grand total of three times now—Dinner, a play and an art exhibition. On anyone else's timeline it would mean that the two of them were on the verge of a greater intimacy. Adding Wilson's overall success in the seduction department—

This did not look good, and House scowled.


	6. Chapter 6

VIII. CUDDY

The butterflies refused to leave her stomach, and even though Cuddy worked diligently through the rest of the day, her thoughts kept racing ahead, time wise. She forced herself not to look at her watch and kept to her schedule, not allowing any deviation from the carefully planned out course.

So much depended on predictability. On established patterns and routines. The entire hospital, from the flow charts and organizational structure right down to the designated breaks of the cafeteria workers relied on it. People were creatures of habit, Cuddy knew, comfortable in their routines.

House in particular. The man had his own reliabilities, even though he might be the last to realize them. Clearly Tritter understood that aspect of human nature—his deft manipulations had left House hamstrung within a month, and kept him off-balance for longer than that. It was an enlightening lesson for Cuddy; one she was determined to apply, for reasons probably just as selfish, but no less intense.

When seven o'clock finally arrived, Cuddy packed up her attaché, slipped into her coat and headed out the door. She deliberately avoided looking anywhere but straight ahead of her, and called goodnight to Tito, the night janitor with the unusual pants. A quick, quiet drive home, and she allowed herself to relax slightly.

Cuddy collected her spare keys, taking the three from their hiding places and bringing them into her kitchen. With care, she hung them on the little hook behind the sugar bowl in the cupboard. Then she pulled out a tub of pre-made chicken and rice, microwaved it, and ate at the kitchen table, reading through the latest issue of _Smithsonian._

Then, with deliberation, she took a bath.

The water was hot, and she scented it with vanilla, settling into it and letting the perfume of it work into her skin as she considered the rest of the evening, and reached for her phone. She dialed a number and waited, settling back in the tub, toes toying with the faucet at the other end.

"Hallo?" came Chase's startled voice. Cuddy spoke up, smoothly.

"Doctor Chase—tell me, has House harassed you about our conversation earlier today?"

His sigh told her what she wanted to know, and she smirked for a moment before speaking again, "I'm sorry about that. If I'd known he was going to take an interest in a private conversation I would have postponed it."

"S'all right—I'm not sure he believed me when I told him the only thing we discussed was Manly Hospital, but then again, you know how House is."

"Yes, I do. If he gives you any more of a hard time, let me know and I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

"No problem, Doctor Chase. Goodnight." Cuddy snapped the phone shut, glancing down at the number listed there and smiled to herself.

One down, one to go.

She opened the phone again and hit an autodial number; within two rings, Wilson's voice was on the line, sounding breathless. "Cuddy?"

"Not an emergency," she assured him gently. "Is House there?"

"He was, giving me the third degree about my scarf of all things."

"Why—does he want one too?"

"I . . . don't know. He kept staring at it all afternoon, and finally showed up here demanding to . . . sniff it."

"Sniff it," Cuddy repeated, her toes curling happily. "That's bizarre even by House standards."

"You're telling me. I offered to give it to him if he wanted it so much. It's just a Pendleton out of the Land's End catalog for Pete's sake—"

"Did he take it?"

"No. Why are you calling me, anyway?"

"Wanted to thank you for the salad. It was thoughtful of you."

"You're welcome."

"Goodnight, Doctor Wilson—don't stay too late, go home."

"Goodnight, Cuddy."

She closed the phone one last time and settled back on the water, sighing happily.

Things were going very well indeed.

She'd soaked for a while, then gotten out and applied lotion; the good stuff, imported from Portugal, and very rich on her skin. Cuddy took her time applying it, stroking it everywhere she could, drinking in the gentle scent as she did so.

Then came the nightgown, chosen carefully for best effect; a diaphanous garment of pale pink that fluttered just above her knees and left her slender arms bare. The neckline was modest, but the transparency made up for that, and Cuddy slipped on a thong of sheer matching pink, pleased with the effect in her bedroom mirror.

Simple trappings for seduction with anyone else; but with House an unknown factor. He might leer at work, but in more private moments he was oddly shy, less prone to speaking and much more to looking, she knew.

The last prop—moving quickly, Cuddy dug it out of an old file in the bottom drawer of her home office desk and carried it to the bedroom. She glanced at it and felt a blush move across her face, but then again, this particular photo always did that to her. Cuddy set it on her nightstand, and carefully put a paperback over it so that only the edges of the photo could be seen. Once it was in place, so to speak, she went to the window, opened it a tiny bit, and climbed into bed.

She slept.

When she awoke, hours later in the darkness, she blinked, wondering what had brought her out of sleep. Staying still for a moment, Cuddy listened carefully to the sounds of night in her house; the tick of the mantle clock far in the living room; the brush of willow branches from the tree next to the window; the soft beep of a watch alarm—

Startled she sat up and turned on the bedside light; House stood leaning against her dresser and casually reached to push the button that would deactivate the watch.


	7. Chapter 7

VIIII. HOUSE

If he wasn't so angry, he would have savored the sight of Cuddy sitting up, her long hair flyaway and tangled from sleep. Certainly the nightie wasn't doing a lot to hide two of her finest assets either, and it was massively tempting to just keep looking.

However, there were issues at hand—IN hand in fact, and House lightly tossed Cuddy's cell phone from palm to palm as he stared at her. "Call history is a terrific feature, don't you think? Not only stores numbers, but puts a time stamp to them too. A call to Chase, and a call to Wilson, within a minute of each other. Right around your bath time, if memory serves—"

"House—" Cuddy protested, her startled stare shifting into a glare. "Give me my phone."

"Give me an explanation, first."

"I don't owe you anything of the kind. And what are you doing in my home anyway?"

House didn't bother answering that one—he knew as instinctively as Cuddy did that her chance of banning him from her personal sanctuary had come and gone a long time ago, and any attempt now was merely for show. Instead he held her phone up; Exhibit A in his prosecution. "The call to Chase lasted a total of fifteen seconds, and the one to Wilson was slightly longer at forty seconds. What would you be discussing with them after hours and from your tub? Taunting them? Inviting one or both of them for a quickie?"

Cuddy's face flushed, and House felt vindicated that his guess had been correct—she HAD called them from the tub. An unreasonable surge of anger flared up and he tamped it down—no point in getting distracted now.

"Not that it's any of your business House, but both calls were about YOU," she muttered. For a second he paused, taken aback by this new information.

About him?

"Right."

Cuddy slid out of bed and rose up; the action tightened the transparent material over her chest, highlighting her nipples delightfully. House gave himself a few seconds to drink that image in before trying to refocus on her annoyed face.

"I asked Chase if you were still harassing him about the whole Manly Hospital discussion, and thanked Wilson for the damned salad, all right? Wilson mentioned that you were acting weird and we talked a little about your need to sniff things."

She was closer now, less than a foot away; within arm's reach, and the dim light was making that nightgown less of a garment and more of a screen door. House felt more of his concentration shift from the intellectual puzzle of Cuddy's recent actions to more of an immediate hormonal appreciation of her personal topography. He hoped that in the semidarkness she'd never notice his slight agitation.

"Diagnosis relies on information, and information is relayed through all the senses," he countered, trying to keep his voice hard.

"Sniffing a colleague crosses a few boundaries, House. First me, then Wilson—" Cuddy murmured, and House protested, feeling an exasperated need to defend his actions. Cuddy wasn't usually this dense—maybe all that perfumed lotion was fogging her thoughts.

"I didn't sniff Wilson, just his scarf. And there wasn't any perfume on it, so if you did wear it, it wasn't for long. Clearly not a date situation—I'm guessing you borrowed his scarf to protect your hair from drizzle when you both came in this morning."

He waited for her to acknowledge this obvious truth. Cuddy merely stared at him, those big blue eyes of hers boring into him.

"And this bothered you all day, House? Clearly the Diagnostics department hasn't got enough to do. Maybe more clinic hours would help."

"For Chase and Cameron, definitely—it would give them some new locations for nookie. So am I right about the scarf?" he couldn't help but ask. Cuddy smiled. A tiny one; the sort that came on because of a memory.

House faltered a little, and Cuddy stepped closer, tilting her head to look at him. "Stop it," she breathed huskily.

"Stop what?" he shot back, feeling wary, wondering precisely what she was seeing in him.

"Stop . . . seducing me, all right? I can deal with it when we're at work and you get outrageous just to play to the crowd, but right now you're just being . . . cruel."

House paused, his mind shifting once again through all the known data and history, analyzing Cuddy's words through his consciousness. An odd pain flared in him; the intensity left him working his jaw for a moment before he could finally speak.

"I'm not being cruel," he whispered in an oddly hollow tone even to his ears. He shifted, wondering exactly how this conversation had gotten into dangerous territory, and why the sight of Cuddy in moonlight and melancholy was making him throb.

He wanted something. Probably a drink, he lied to himself.

She blinked, and he didn't miss the glitter in her eyes. "The hell you're not," she whispered and turned away from him. House reached out, trying to catch her warm upper arm, but Cuddy had moved faster than he'd realized, and she bumped her book off the nightstand as she pulled away from him.

In a glimpse he caught the image of the photo as it fell; a black and white window onto the past, fluttering to the carpet in a whisper of sound. Cuddy stared at it, frozen. The heat redoubled within the pit of his stomach, and House bent to pick up the photo, stunned.

"Where the hell did you get this?" he asked, suspecting the answer and not really caring, no—the mechanics didn't matter nearly as much as the simple fact that Cuddy had it on her nightstand.

She turned her face away so he couldn't see her eyes, but the waver in her voice filled in what her words didn't say. "Does it matter?"

X. CUDDY

Time hung suspended and she realized she wasn't breathing as she waited.

This

Was

It.

The make or break moment, the hinge in the chaos theory, the mad second of this or that, yes or no, a choice in the making, influenced as much as possible, but still House's alone to make. She'd done everything humanly possible to bring them both to this place, this time and setting, and still the outcome wasn't possible to predict.

She held her breath and hoped.

House let his gaze slide over the photo, his mouth a grim line, and when he lifted his eyes again, Cuddy didn't dare look away. She swallowed to try and get rid of the dryness in her mouth and brazenly reached out.

Always better to be assertive with House than to let him know when he had the upper hand.

"This photo isn't yours, and I'll be damned if I give it back to you," he rumbled, his voice stronger now. She closed her eyes in relief, letting her hand drop down. One strap of her nightgown slid off her shoulder; unplanned but perfect for the moment; a tiny taunt.

"House—"

"Oh call me Greg . . . I think if you've seen as much of me as this photo shows then we're on a much more personal basis, aren't we, Lisa."

"Just stop it—it's only a photo, and a damned old one at that."

House flicked his fingers and sent the glossy sailing off in the direction of the hallway, a silent paper bat flittering in the night. "It's evidence, and it turns me on to think you've been keeping it near your bed, clutching it with one hand while the other's been busy . . . laid it on your pillow when you've been on your hands and knees, maybe?"

Cuddy paused a fraction of a second too long, and House smirked, even as more heat throbbed insistently between his thighs. "So what if I have? You're an attractive man; I'm not blind and I'm not without a sex drive, Greg."

"Just poor taste in live partners."

Cuddy swirled on him, eyes blazing, feeling real frustration now rising up along with all the other nameless lonely desires. "That's because I haven't had much of a chance to get laid now, have I? Seems like someone always shows up to make sure I'm left high and dry—someone who'd rather pay for his fucks than admit he's too selfish and too emotionally crippled to take another chance at a relationship!"

"Shut up," House snarled back, stunned at her vitriol, at the way it seared his hypocrisy off the bones of his pride. He snagged her arm, pulling her to him, and she swung her free hand towards his face. In a swift move he dropped his cane and caught her wrist, stopping her before the blow could reach his cheek.

"You're already shut up, Greg, and I'm sick and tired of being your untouchable, untouched plaything!" Cuddy cried back, struggling now, caught and fighting him. House reeled her in, giving way to his body's natural response to her fury, and nuzzled her face taking some comfort in the familiar scent of her; lotion and sweet womanly musk of her skin. The brush of his face against hers seemed to help soothe both of their agitation—somewhat.

Cuddy blinked, stunned at how fast her body tensed and yielded against his, how the trickle of slickness between her thighs and the ache of her nipples left her unsteady now. Greg House had always been a potent being, undeniably male on so many levels, but this basic, primitive one and her response to it was nearly overwhelming.

"You don't get to throw an accusation like that at me and not expect a response now, do you?" House rumbled, lips moving across her cheek, dragging along her skin. "Stop fighting, unless you like it rough . . . "

In reply Cuddy stilled herself, taking a big breath and trying to calm her pounding heartbeat. So close; she felt the iron bar of his erection pressing against the front of her thigh, the overpowering flare of his aura into hers, sending little pleasurable jolts at every point their bodies made contact.

His lips were so hot, burning against her chin, her lower lip . . . she spoke, shifting so her words were half smothered by the closeness of his mouth over hers. "Go. Go unless you really mean this, Greg."

"Shut. Up," he replied, and Cuddy felt the curious lightness of delight flow through her at his mild, deliberate tone. He meant it; he was staying. She shifted, letting a low musical moan rise out of her slender throat as he finally dragged his mouth over hers and kissed her, hard and deep.

They fit, a hard wet blend of teeth and tongues shifting hungrily in a dance of dominance; sloppy and all the more arousing for that. Cuddy kissed back with a headstrong freedom she hadn't felt in years, and when House let her hand go, she slid it up the side of his face, letting the bristles there scratch her palm

House was delicious, a hot tangy blend of bitter malt and sugary red lollipop, and his tongue took slow, deliberate possession of her mouth, taming hers, kiss after kiss after kiss. He put his entire formidable concentration into it, and Cuddy felt her bones dissolve like bicarbonate in water under his ruthless erotic skill.

This was no half-way House, and a distant part of her mind snickered at the pun while the rest of her writhed against him.

Gradually, the need to breathe hit them both at the same time, and House reluctantly gave her palate a last loving swipe before pulling back and trying to focus on her face again. Cuddy closed her eyes and licked her lips, feeling them begin to puff a little.

"You do like it rough . . ."

"No surprise that you do," Cuddy growled back, feeling defensive. House managed a small smirk, a dangerous glitter in his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

XI. HOUSE

He felt hot and cold at the same time; that weird tingly sensation that prickled over his skin, distracting him from the intensity of Cuddy's eyes. The wave of heat shimmering along her aura was practically visible, even here in the darkness, and House ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth to savor the lingering taste of her there.

She kissed like a . . . he couldn't quite define it, really. Brazen and demanding; sultry with just the perfect hint of hungry slut to it. Hot and delicious; Cuddy was not about to make him do all the work, the way Cameron had done in her afterthought semi-seduction, oh no.

Damn it, kissing Cuddy could be enough to make him come, if he didn't manage some degree of control.

"Yesss. Yes, I do. Not that I get to go that way too often; most working girls don't want to risk damaging the goods," he sneered. Cuddy tried to pull away from him, but House tightened his arms around her, well aware—acutely aware—of his greater strength.

"You're getting off on this—" she accused, glaring at him, and he watched the rapid flutter of her pulse along her slender neck. It was too tempting, and he bent his head to press his mouth against that tender skin, knowing his stubble would abrade it and leave a mark.

Hoping it would leave a mark.

"Big time," came his muffled agreement. Cuddy moaned and writhed against him, hips rolling in a grind that would have done a stripper proud. For a long moment she clung to him, then pushed at his chest, hard.

"Stop it—You use me in a lot of ways, Greg, but this isn't going to be one of them!" she hissed, shoulders hitching a bit.

House reluctantly pulled away from her warm, tender neck and stared at her. "You want me," he pointed out with absolute confidence.

It was true; her nipples—those lovely stiff gumdrops jutting through the gauze of her nightie--were brushing against his chest firmly, and he felt them even through his tee-shirt.

The fact that she was trying to control her breathing was pretty much indicative too that Cuddy was seriously aroused, as was the faint sheen across the top of her hairline. And the pupils of her eyes were huge, the darkness drinking him in. House caught the back of her head in the palm of his hand and pulled her in for another kiss.

Hotter this time, like a pepper sizzling with honey, and they fit as perfectly as before, only this time Cuddy bared her teeth and nipped his mouth between kisses; hard enough to leave indentations, not enough to draw blood. House fought his groans, feeling the molten heat of raw lust racing down through his stomach to his shaft, thickening his impatient cock

_Turned on here. Seriously turned on---_

He gusted a hot breath against her lips, voice gravelly now. "Christ, keep it up and you're asking for trouble, Lisa---"

"I . . ." she growled back between slurpy nips, "Can handle . . . you, Greg House."

He closed his eyes. Her tone—brazen and throaty—on top of all the other demanding sensory input of tongue, teeth and touch, was enough to push the recklessness within him, and House slid his hands down to cup her ass, fingers gripping tightly, painfully into that satiny skin and sleek muscle.

Cuddy gave a little squeal that House sucked into his own mouth. He broke away from her pout and stared down at her once more, his words coming fast and hard. "Everybody lies—do you, Lisa? Because I don't think you can take me on the way I want it. Right now I'd love nothing better than to tie you to your own headboard and fuck you senseless, but I'm not up for rape charges or a change or heart when you're limping around the halls tomorrow!"

He'd said it, and now that the words hung in the air between them. Panic and exhilaration flowed through him in waves, squeezing the air from his lungs. Christ—he hadn't pursued this sort of wild lust in far too long; this skydiving in the dark, wolfish tendencies out and ready to howl.

It was a blindingly stupid move---

"Mmm . . . Yeah, that goes both ways, doesn't it?" Cuddy purred, and House felt one of her hands slide between his legs, stroking the straining denim. "Evil Doctor House pressing sexual harassment and assault charges against his boss even though he broke into her home carrying a big ol' concealed weapon—"

He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the caress; Jesus, Cuddy knew her way around a prick, even through clothing. Sweet pressure, slow stroke . . .

"Pro tempore?" House muttered. Cuddy licked her way from the corner of his mouth to his ear, and nipped the lobe.

"Auribus teneo lupum—" came her breathy reply, and he smirked against her temple, impressed and unwilling to admit it.

_Who'd have thought a cocktease would know Latin? 'I have a wolf by the ears' indeed._

Then Cuddy turned her mouth to his, and House took it, more roughly this time, making them both moan.

After that there was no thinking; just a dream state of sensory impressions in a melting watercolor around them. House dimly remembered pulling her nightie off impatiently while Cuddy struggled, her dark eyes flashing at him. Her hands tugging and pulling at his tee-shirt, nails raking his skin in her urgency, and the first press of bare torsos when he yanked her to him for another kiss.

Her skin was velvet, cushioned and yielding, kissable, lickable, biteable. House wanted to touch all of it, from the sweet enticing cleavage between her breasts to the smooth expanse along her ribs, and the knobs along her spine. She knew when to squirm and how much to resist, and it felt so good to be bad and grab her thin wrists, pinning them behind her.

Nearly naked Cuddy, hair curling around her head with the damp heat of her desire—there was something amazing, poetic, and libido-roastingly sexy about that, he realized with a throb.

Roughly he snagged her panties with his free hand. "Let's lose these, shall we?"

XII. CUDDY

She was having trouble breathing, and every breath she could get was rich with the scent of hot, musky House. His mouth, and what he could do with it should be outlawed, Cuddy decided. No man should have a tongue that dangerously seductive, and the ruthless patience to tease back the way he did.

It was heady addictive stuff, and she pushed for more even as she tugged and resisted, acting on a calculated hypothesis and enjoying the vindication of the truth. Simple fact—House liked a challenge. He didn't appreciate, didn't focus his interest on anything that came to easily to him, and that included fucking. It had been a guess, and now she knew it had been the right one.

_House wasn't the only one who could make a diagnosis_, she gloated inwardly. She twisted, fighting the tug of his hand against her pale silk panties. "Get your hands off me—"

"Getting off, yes. And with hands, very likely," came his rumble. He slid a palm roughened by handlebars into the leg hole of her thong and lightly caressed the soft vee of her mound. "There's nothing quite as nasty as the sight of a man's hand in a woman's panties, is there? Such a clear indication of sexual intent—"

"House—" She gasped, hips rocking forward instinctively, rubbing, seeking friction. Cuddy felt the honey slickness of her arousal heavy and wet, soaking the panel between her legs. He looked down and gave a groan of delight.

"Oh yeah, wet enough to wring out."

"That's—" she wanted to say 'crude' but aside from the fact it was true, the way House rolled it out was unbearably arousing, his breath hot along her cheekbone. The gentle rub of his fingers exploring her had Cuddy quivering, and when he finally slid them ever so delicately around her stiff, aching nub, she flinched hard.

_Sooo gooood----_

"That's what you want, isn't it?" House murmured, but instead of gloating his tone was unexpectedly gentle, a caress of words to match that of his fingers, and Cuddy fought the quick prickle of tears that filled the corners of her closed eyes.

"Don't . . . don'tstop . . . " she managed through slack lips, tipping her head back and rocking softly against his fingers, seeking the rhythm; so close, so veryveryclose . . .

House did, and she groaned in disappointment, baring her teeth as she brought her head forward again to shoot him a black glare. "Jesus I HATE you!" she cried, furiously, fighting the damp grip of his hand on hers behind her back. He kept his hand pressed against her wet curls, cupping the warmth of her sex in a possessive manner.

"Then you're going to hate me a lot more. Got handcuffs?"

"W-what?" Cuddy stopped tugging for a moment, staring at him; for a moment she saw him falter slightly—just a quick panicked second. She shook her head, and spoke up, adrenaline mingling with a sudden throb between her legs. "A sash—on my bathrobe. But don't think it's going to be that easy—"

His gaze flicked to her robe, hanging on the post at the foot of the bed and his smirk flashed out. House slowly slid his hand free of her panties and shifted forward, his big body herding hers towards the bed. If she pushed hard she could put him off-balance, but even as that thought came to mind House already had her pinned between his body and the mattress.

_Boxed in_, Cuddy's mind snickered. House experimentally licked the shell of her ear and she shuddered with pleasure—God! Hot breath, and that nearly unbearable ticklish proximity into her aura—

"Here's how this goes, Lisa . . . Easy or hard, you're on that mattress, hands tied, pretty thighs open for me," he murmured matter-of-factly. "This can be good, or it can be incredible—up to you."

"My GOD you have a fucking ego—" she spluttered, unable to keep a squeak out of her voice. House reached his free hand over to the bathrobe and tugged the sash from the loops that held it; he leaned on her to do that, and his torso pressed her spine to the mattress. Cuddy squirmed, not wanting to admit that the struggle felt damned good.

It had been a long time since she'd had this kind of weight on her, bare skin to skin. House's body was rangy and warm, with an economy of muscle under smooth skin. The soft hair across his chest was just about perfect, she decided; enough to be sexy and give definition to some impressive pectorals. Added to that was the unforgettable scratch of stubble along his throat and across his face; the flick of it over her chest drove her nuts.

"I bet the Boy Scouts of America never dreamed I'd put one of their most touted skills to this sort of use—" House muttered, pulling up her hands over her head and looping the satin sash around her wrists. "Puts that whole 'be prepared' motto into a new perspective."

She felt a frisson of fear shoot through her; House was utterly serious about the bonds around her wrists; she felt the sash tighten securely. With a flex of her hips she fought, squirming under him, giving in to panic. House kept her pinned, and slid his hands to cup her face, both of his palms so big they cradled it securely.

He stared down at her. "Shhhhhh---" House kissed her again, this time with gentle little probes of his tongue, and Cuddy relaxed by degrees, feeling her alarm die down again under his hot, tender kisses.

_God he's right—I don't know if I can handle this_, she thought.


	9. Chapter 9

XIII. HOUSE

It felt unreal; like one of his fantasies but with the added richness of all the senses channeling into him. Almost too much sensory input in fact; House fought for self-control as he leaned over Cuddy's supine form and looped one end of the sash around the metal bars of her headboard.

The sash felt cool and smooth against his fingertips, an impression standing alone for a long second. He closed his eyes for a single beat of his heart and looked down at Cuddy in the next. "A nice little slipknot—tight enough to hold you for the moment."

"That's what you think—" Cuddy muttered back, but her hot-eyed stare up into his face betrayed her, as did the flutter of her pulse along her throat. House took his time shifting back down the length of her bare body, appreciating the way her contours pressed against his.

He wanted this to go on all night; this out-of-body give and take, emphasis on the taking part. Cuddy restrained had him quivering; like a starving man looking over a banquet, not sure where to begin, but determined to have it all. House harshly sighed, and stretched out beside her, one big hand roaming over her body, the way he'd longed to do for years. Sweet curves under warm silk, and the scent of her skin intoxicating.

"I believe in being thorough, so let's start at the top . . . " he told murmured into her ear, letting his breath heat it. House lightened his touch, trailing his fingers up over Cuddy's breast lightly, sensitive to the heat rising off her skin. It was damper now; ripe and responsive. Feeling a tiny bit brutal, House pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger; Cuddy moaned and rolled her hips in a slow wriggle, her half-closed eyes unfocused for a second, then her gaze coming back in full smolder.

"That hurt," came her throaty outrage. House's gaze was still on her breast, and he rubbed the nipple with his index finger, toying with it in fascination.

"You're an animal, Lisa. Oh you might get away with taming yourself under cute little Donna Karan power suits and self-imposed routines throughout your career, but get you naked on a bed and that's all gone—" House murmured in a commanding monotone. He shifted his touch to her other breast, cupping it firmly, squeezing with enough pressure to be a full possessive grope. "Here, you're one sleek, hot little slut . . . "

"S-s-sticks and stoooones . . ." Cuddy stammered out defensively, but even then, her voice was uneven, and House heard her breathing quicken. He rolled closer, raising himself on one propped elbow the better to brush his face alongside the hollow of her armpit. It was smooth, and slightly damp with sweet muskiness that made him throb in happy response. Of all the senses he relied on to keep him grounded in the real world, scent had the most emotional impact, even before taste. House reveled in the scent of Cuddy; her perfume, her pheromones, her enticingly heated skin.

"You should go topless to work," he decided. "Set the girls free and see how much more cooperation you get from everyone." As he spoke, he used his index finger to circle around her tight, plump nipples, shifting from one breast to the other in a wicked tease. Cuddy wriggled again, her flesh pebbling in tiny responsive goosebumps.

"Riiight. That will really go over well at the board meetings—" she groaned, smiling in spite of herself at a fleeting thought of all the astonished faces staring down the table at her.

Then House shifted, bent his head and the sudden HEAT of his mouth against her nipple, searing, sending a throb of molten pleasure through her body, God! Cuddy gasped, arching off the mattress, but House draped an arm across her lean stomach and pinned her down, suckling hard for a few seconds, intensifying the mindless delight just to the sweet, sharp point of pain.

He stopped, lifting his head to stare up at her. "You liked that," House accused in a whisper. "The almost-hurt."

A quiet pause smoldered between them.

"It's . . . good sometimes," Cuddy breathed back, not looking at him, her gaze on the ceiling. "Edgy. Sometimes they're the same."

House grunted in agreement; pain could be pleasure and pleasure pain—it depended on which came first and how it was handled. The morph of one to the other had no fixed point, and the very fluidity of the game made it that much more fascinating. Just hearing Cuddy admit to it cranked the tension up, and had him pressing hard against her hip. His thigh ached, but the rest of his body ignored it, caught up in a more urgent, sensual need that he wouldn't be able to control much longer.

"Yes they are," he agreed thickly. "Sometimes that blurring of the line is just what the doctor ordered."

She growled in response, a low, sweet sound and thrashed slightly; House felt a warmth down the muscles of his stomach as he watched her lose herself in the moment. There was something so fierce and feminine in Cuddy; an alpha bitch for the wolf pack of their professional world without a doubt. It thrilled him that in this private little interlude she was letting her guard down . . . or merely letting the anima of her nature come through the carefully maintained defenses and habits of a lifetime. Either way, this was the Cuddy he wanted—a fighter just as likely to take him as he her.

A challenge.

"Since you've seen mine, as evidenced by the photo you stole from Stacy's possession, I think it's only fair I spend a little time perusing yours—" House decided, punctuating his announcement with a light nip along the underside of her nearer breast. Cuddy gritted her teeth against the pleasure, he noted gloatingly.

"Stop talking—" she hissed, and House laughed aloud at that, a lazy, happy sound. It wasn't difficult to focus on much more tactile ways of taunting her, and she did have a point: they were pretty much beyond the need for words now. He shifted awkwardly, but with determination, taking a meandering tour down the length of her body and pausing to enjoy the trip.

The firm muscles of her abdomen, tight from Pilates and Yoga no doubt, quivering a little now at the touch of his nose. The tiny navel, sweet to the kiss, and scented with lotion. The slightly concave cradle of Cuddy's hips, sleek, carved bones beautifully highlighted in shadow and sensitive to nips and licks. And between them, the lovely thicket of tangled curls, small, tight and silky.

House blew a breath across them just to feel Cuddy tense.

He rubbed his chin along the top of her thigh, and moved his hands, gliding them down along her legs, shifting to the insides of her knees, marveling at how his palms covered them easily. He hummed, letting the vibrations rattle through his chest and against her stomach, knowing Cuddy would feel them. When she tensed once more, he pushed her knees apart, firmly.

She resisted, and House smiled; of course. Never mind that her entire body was as taut as a string on a guitar, or that the rich, hot smell of her arousal was flooding his senses and making his breathing erratic, no this was Cuddy making things difficult even now.

Challenges were good. He bent and licked the warm crease along the inside of her thigh and hip. Salty sweet, and the gasping twitch his move created made her knees part involuntarily. House nosed his way through the ticklish curls along her mound, feeling his momentary pride dissolve as more urgent needs flared again.

A kiss. Soft and sweet, lightly, hotly dropped ever so gently at the top of Cuddy's cleft, right where everything was most sensitive. House braced himself as the woman under his mouth cried out, her hips surging forward at his blatant precision. He forced himself to pull back and keep the pressure a light touch, to keep his whiskers from scraping the delicate slick edges of her sex. This was a matter of control; of pride and lust and power and there was no second chance to get it right.

Cuddy deserved the best he could give her.

After a few long seconds, when her hips reluctantly settled back onto the mattress, he kissed her again, this time letting the heat of his breath blow across her slick, plump petals. Cuddy wriggled. "Grrrrrreeggggg---" it was his name, but in a thick, hungry low voice that made his balls tighten with pleasure.

"Shhhhhh---no talking," he muttered, smiling to himself.


	10. Chapter 10

XIIII. CUDDY

She wasn't sure how much time had passed, or how long House had been torturing her; the haze of pleasure glazed everything over, and her body was in the slow cycle of arousal once more, nudging upwards again as the heat of House's tongue deliberately circled her tight little button.

The muscles of her inner thighs ached, as did her wrists, but the rest of her sizzled, and Cuddy was sure her skin held a sheen of perspiration from her shins to her hairline. She licked her dry lips and groaned again. Around her wrists, the sash had tightened during her struggles, and now she could feel her fingers beginning to tingle from the loss of blood flow—nothing major yet, but one more sensation to meld with all the others moving in quicksilver jolts through her body.

"I hate you . . . " she rasped, her voice a croon. House lifted his head to let his cheek stubble scrape against the inside of her damp knee. That brought a shiver, and he turned, letting his hot tongue lick in the delicate crease there. Instantly Cuddy quivered.

"If by 'hate' you mean adore and lust for me down to the core of your squirmy little in-heat status, then I'd have to agree," House rolled out, his voice thick with satisfaction. Hearing it, Cuddy drew in a deep breath; House was as focused in the moment as she was.

Maybe even more so.

All the muscles of her stomach tightened, and her hips angled up, seeking more, the hot, wet bloom between her legs like some exotic orchid now, slick and alive in the dim light. It was difficult to think, and Cuddy gave up trying, letting her body simply react and respond, the rush of sensation carrying her away like an ocean wave.

So good. So good to give up trying to hold up and be responsible. So good to stop thinking and worrying and brooding. So good to feel like a small, tender animal, tormented with sweetness and teased with darkness. Cuddy wriggled her hips and swallowed, not knowing quite where time began and ended. House was good at this, almost TOO good at dandling her right on the edge. She'd always suspected he'd be a master at this, but to have proof; to be living from moment to pulsing moment in this liquid pleasure was more than gratifying—

It was fast becoming addictive.

She licked her lips. "Want you—"

"Soon," House purred, and licked again; one long wet flick of tongue to sensitized skin. The damp heat of his breath tickled, and Cuddy felt a crazed pulse begin throbbing between her hips, a longing building fast and hard.

"No! Now, God, please, I need you now!" she begged in a voice she didn't recognize at all. Part of her was shocked—she had never begged, ever. Certainly not in bed . . . but that was before House, when sex was simply about getting an itch scratched, and not this sweet, strange full body and soul submergence. Ashamed and aching, she turned her face, eyes closed.

Christ, what was happening to her?

She felt the hot prickle of tears behind her closed lids, not sure if shame or desire caused them. Cuddy was aware of the slow shift of House's weight, and she hope he wouldn't see her face or her tears—that would be more humiliation than she could take at the moment.

"How much do you need me, Lisa? How much do you want me?" came House's voice. It sounded so distant and at the same time so ragged that she risked opening her eyes. The tears left her vision blurry, but in the dim light she made out House sitting on the edge of the mattress near her hip, torso turned to her, his chest bare, and his thin, stubbled cheeks slick with her wetness.

"Want . . . " she echoed in a husky voice. "You."

House shifted, his smile caught between adoration and triumph. Carefully he shifted, stretching out on top of Cuddy, allowing his weight to pin her down and ignoring his aching thigh. The press of his long muscled body on hers made both of them sigh, and Cuddy rocked her hips eagerly. "Yessss, wantttt—"

"You'll get," he grunted back, and Cuddy felt his mouth on the side of her neck, his face sliding down to let his teeth nip at her exposed collarbone. The bite was small, but the pleasurable jolt tensed all her muscles, and she moaned out loud.

"Yesss—" she cried softly, absorbing the thrill. The pain was good, from the scrape of his whiskers to the nip that would leave a mark. Dimly she knew it would show tomorrow unless she wore a collar, but that was a fleeting and minor consideration here in the heated darkness of her bedroom.

"More?" House demanded, nose in her ear. Cuddy squealed breathlessly, the deep tickle running down her spine. House smelled like her—musky and sweet—and his weigh was grounding her perfectly. He had his weight on his forearms so she could breathe, but just enough.

"Morre—" she agreed throatily. House looked down in her eyes, his gaze inescapable. Bending, he lightly licked her lips, tracing his tongue around them with erotic delicacy, and ending with a nip at one corner of her chuffed little pout.

"Cuddy uncoiled . . . Lisa ligatured. I've always wanted you just like this—" he whispered. "Under me."

She heard the gloat in his tone; the full purr of a male tiger recumbent on pinned prey.

And if feltgood to be pinned, she sighed. There were only a few people she'd ever considered giving in to; a handful of people in the course of a lifetime who had enough force of will for her to acknowledge their right.

The only one at Princeton-Plainsboro was House.

From the beginning, Cuddy had known he was more than what he seemed, from his arrogance to his infuriating brilliance; from his careless sensuality to his bleak and cruel jibes. House knew her buttons, and she made it a point to learn his so to keep the balance of power as best she could around the man. It hadn't been easy or fun most of the time, but it HAD been a worthy challenge.

And the heat had begun in those first clashes, those quick and withering battle of wits. Cuddy found herself aroused by House's cutting remarks and merciless blue-eyed glares. She'd used what she could of psychology, seeking strategies of power, lowering her voice, all to no visible effect. House wasn't intimidated by her authority or impressed with her position.

But he was interested in her; that much Cuddy knew. Deep inside, under the words and outer posturing, Cuddy could sense the attraction within him. Sometimes it showed in the cocking of his head, or the stare that was as blatant as a caress. If House knew what he was showing he either didn't care or didn't think Cuddy would believe it, but she did.

Purely animal reaction; male to female, a matter of pheromones, hormones and biology, the preferences genetically encoded after eons.

It was that added element that drove her to distraction around the man, and left her weak after her shouting matches with him. Trying to ignore the biology while keeping up an intellectual front was a hell of a juggling act, and it hadn't taken Cuddy long to realize exactly how to break the status quo of the stalemate.

Do the one thing he'd never expect of her—give in without giving in. Make him think he'd won, when in reality, Cuddy knew she had led him into this moment in slow, carefully planned steps. It was risky as hell, but oh God, worth it because right now House was lying on her naked stomach, sucking on her collarbones and making her spine melt.

"Greggg—" came her growl, hot and slow, "Pleeeassse---" and to add urgency, she slowly undulated her hips against his, shifting them in a slow rolling motion.

He smothered a grunt against her shoulder and reached down between them, his hand fumbling with his shorts impatiently and getting them down enough for her to feel the hard suede of his heavy cock against her thigh, the heat of it making her moan in anticipation.

"Now—" he managed in a harsh whisper, and Cuddy shifted, her legs sliding around his hips as he braced one hand on her mattress and used the other to grip himself. "Now—"

XV. HOUSE

Exquisite. The pain and pleasure were swirling now, in a weird yin and yang through his system, alternating in hot pangs as he rocked forward and pushed slickly into Lisa. His head arched up and he groaned, deeply, his entire frame tense and raw with pleasure.

It was maddening to go slow; to hold back when his entire body wanted nothing more than to go forward in lustful berserker plowing, taking Lisa hard, making her take him and cry out in doing so. The intensity left him throbbing, and the wrap of her legs around his hips felt insanely sweet.

House pulled back, and surged forward again, controlling his panting, gliding on the edge of orgasm, but restraining enough to savor the delicious power of the moment. This was true desire fulfilled; this mastery of the woman under him. His past times spent on hookers never ever approached this intensity; they were infrequent conveniences chosen for their availability, distractions with dark hair to help along a fantasy or two.

Nowhere near as dangerous and wild as the real thing under him now in the dark, her hellcat growls making his balls tighten. House stroked again, settling into a slow, strong rhythm to torment both himself and Cuddy, a leisurely pace that teased all the more.

Cuddy squirmed, her sleek and surprisingly strong legs tightening around his waist now, her heels drumming on his ass in frustration as she tried to urge him to speed up. Her glare was both sultry and furious and House loved it. He chuckled, and rasped out, "I could always stop---"

The reply to this was a stream of husky curses and renewed struggles as Cuddy tugged harder on her bound hands, head whipping back and forth on the pillow in an emphatic 'NO.' House pushed deeper, growling a little himself at the unbelievable searing snugness of Cuddy's velvet quim.

So good, so moltenly perfect in this dream-like space between moments, this slick slide of him into her, primal and right. House dropped his mouth on hers, urging her tongue to tease his, caressing it with his own. For long moments, they rocked together, locked in achingly erotic syncopation.

Then his hips quickened, and the hot, unstoppable surge of weightless, beautiful heat surged down his spine, driving him deeper as House gave in to the pleasure vibrating through his muscles in hard shudders. Little splinters of pain gave it another layer of sensation, and he pulled his mouth from hers to groan against her damp shoulder. Under him, Cuddy tensed, her eager legs clutching him as her hips thrust up and her own orgasm rippled through her. House felt it in the clench of her stomach and quim; unmistakable and intimately beautiful. He sucked in uneven breaths savoring the little milking squeezes around his cock.

They lay there, quiet and dazed as the heat radiated off of their bodies; sweat and semen trickling down limbs and onto the damp sheets below them. House closed his eyes, drifting in the sweet darkness for a while, and nearly succumbing to sleep. It would be too easy, to tempting to drop off, his head on Lisa's shoulder, his softening prick still within her. The blessed rush of endorphins was numbing his thigh, and the pillowy sweetness of Cuddy's bare skin had him relaxed now.

But House reluctantly shifted, rolling to the left of her, favoring his thigh and looked down at Cuddy, trying to gauge her state.

She lay quiet on the mattress, her hands still bound above her head, her hair tangled in a wild cascade on the pillow. A few tendrils clung damply to her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling.

It was an amazing smile, lush and glistening, her lips curving up in satisfied smugness, and House knew it should have irritated him, but somehow it didn't; he claimed full credit for that sex kitten smile of hers.

"Stop looking like a creamy canary," he whispered gruffly, reaching up to untie the knots in the sash. Cuddy gave a happy little moan.

"What if I don't?" she replied, slurring her words a little.

House tugged harder, working his fingers into the sash. "Then I'll spank you. Hard," he added when she laughed, her giggles more felt than heard.

"First you have to catch me," came her taunt. House managed to free her wrists and she flexed them a little, then let them flop on the pillow, as boneless as the rest of her. House pushed her hip with his, and she shifted over slowly, giving him more room to stretch out.

He gave a little whine. "Wet spot. Ew."

"Your mess—" Cuddy murmured sleepily.

House reached over and pulled her against his side. "At least half this genetic filth is yours, Miss Peach Ass. If I'd known you were a gusher as well as a screamer, I'd have brought rubber sheets."

He felt odd—hollow and quiet, but not empty. It was like melancholy but without the depression and self-loathing. House took a minute to consider the state of affairs. Cuddy was nestled against his right side, one leg over his in a slightly possessive drape, her cheek against his shoulder. She felt good there.

House remembered that Stacy had always preferred to have him spoon around her after sex. That had been fine before the infarction and hellishly hard afterward, when any pressure against his thigh had him biting back screams. Stacey had trouble coping, and eventually solved the problem by getting up after sex, leaving him alone.

Practical, but not . . . comforting. That rather summed up Stacy precisely Post-Infarction. House thought. Then he felt vaguely guilty for thinking of her at all in a moment like this, and turned to look at Cuddy.

She was looking at him, eyes locked on his, her expression slightly troubled, and House wondered what she was thinking, but wasn't sure he wanted to ask. The endorphins were ebbing away now, and he needed Vicodin and sleep, in that order if possible.

"Meds?" Cuddy asked, and he nodded. She slipped away off the other side of the mattress and groaned as she got to her feet, making her way around it to reach for his pants on the floor, fishing the amber bottle out of the pocket.

Cuddy dumped a few out on her palm and leaned over the mattress to give them to him; House tugged, bringing her hand up to his mouth and licked them off her palm. He didn't let her thin wrist go, and Cuddy waited until he'd swallowed the pills before trying to pull away.

House shook his head. "Come here."

"House—" she shot a glance over her shoulder to the bathroom and he sighed.

"We'll clean up later . . . a little sticky afterglow is the mark of great sex." The minute the words left his mouth he blinked, watching her smile curve upwards again.

"Great, huh?" she preened, running her free hand through her tangled hair.

"I did all the work," he shot back, but his tone lacked any boastful sulkiness. He tugged on her wrist again, and this time Cuddy moved to straddle him. House slid his hands up her back, stroking her bare spine and making her lie on him. "Ohh, cowgirl . . . this could be fun."

"Shhhh. . . " Cuddy countered softly, shifting back to his right side and settling in again. "Sleep."

"Sleep," House agreed, feeling her settle down against his side. The warmth and pliant weight of her body felt wonderful against his ribs

Hookers of course never did that; all business and no cuddle.

He rubbed her wrist. "Sore?"

"Yes. Go to sleep," Cuddy murmured, a little sternly now. House gave a little growl and slid his right arm around her, then closed his eyes, letting himself drift off, second by second into that quiet darkness of sleep.

Before he completely slid under, he turned his head and nipped Cuddy's nose.


End file.
